Such An End
by Wildhorses1492
Summary: Forgotten wars. The wars where the "right side" loses. Where good men die. Where wickedness triumphs over the pure-hearted. Where Death is king, and Life the beggar. Life asked Death, "Why do people love me, but hate you?" and Death replied, "Because you are a beautiful lie, and I am a painful truth."


**_~Such An End~_**

The battle was fierce; the Telmarines were stronger, as if something of new hope were flooding their ranks. But perhaps– perhaps it was fear, he thought as he turned to survey the endless lines of the Telmarine soldiers briefly. Fear of their King and his wrath should they fail. The Narnian captain called for his cavalry, commanding them with all the false bravado he could yet muster.

As he slashed a soldier through the heart, Windstorm, his war stallion, stumbled over a dying man. The screams and blood of a battlefield were nothing akin to the fanciful dreams of boys who had never seen the thickness of war and the hate that spurred evil men on. He remembered the hundred young Narnians who had enlisted– he remembered their laughter.

This evening, when the dead and wounded were carried from the bloodstained, armor-riddled earth, there would be no laughter. Only tears of pain, shock, and hysterics. But he had seen so much death in his life that what was one more battle, one more thrust of his blood-covered blade into another man's beating heart? He turned away from the death before him to search for the figure of his king.

And that was his err. When he turned back once more, there was naught he could do but watch the spear flying through the air in fierce, deadly woeful beauty. The force of the impact knocked him from the saddle.

He had always known this would come. But at least, he thought with twisted relief, he would not be forced to watch his country's downfall. He grabbed the shaft in his hands, trying to ignore the pain that pulsed through him like a drumbeat. The wood was smooth under his palms, reminding him of his boyhood . . . in the desert.

Finally, he thought, _finally_ he could allow himself to remember his past– to watch it play before him in an endless arc. He remembered his father's voice, and his brother's smooth javelin that he would use to hunt tigers or jackals with. The smell of horses under a burning desert sun and the sounds of the nomadic camp at dusk, as the edges of the world cooled. He cried out in pain, becoming another one of the many anguished moans on the battlefield. He stared up at the sky, the clouds as they passed overhead leisurely, oblivious to the earthly wars fought by pitiful mortals.

How foolish the hearts of men, he reasoned, that they should think they might own –if for mere seconds– this land and earth that belongs to Aslan. They fight and bicker, how amusing they must seem, to argue over dust like children over toys. They cannot address one another but with blade: sword of metal and sword of tongue. Insult upon insult they heave at the 'enemy,' when the true enemy is their mortal greed and lust for more than they truly need.

The blue pigment of the sky brightened in his vision as the pain heightened considerably. He winced, wondering which side was the victorious for the day. Black spots mottled the white clouds as his blood flowed around his hands and the spear point. Triumph, what a weakness, for as soon as it is gained, another man takes it away. How stupid, to think we might take praise for what Aslan wills, he mused, drifting slowly from consciousness and sound mind.

Death, how it frightens the healthy and the living, but how simple and easy it is to the doomed. Life, he scoffed, is deadly. Life, with all the false hopes, delusions, and dreams it entertained. Death, the painful truth of reality; in which you are a fool in every sense of the word: foolish to believe you could survive by your own wits, by your own strength, by your own pleasure and ideal.

At least he had never lived in that dream world. War had made him understand the end. He knew that to pick up his sword every morning was to die. To live by the blade of war was to meet your end by it.

The fate of every soldier.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **This vignette is something I call a 'though-provoking-piece'. It talks of death and war and the realities behind them. What drives men on in those last instances? Love of country or grim determination to be the one to survive?** **What is Life but a pretty, fanciful lie to hide our inner darkness and sins? And Death, is it a reality we long to ignore until it is upon us? At the end, in Death's arms, do we all not have to bring what we have done in Life to the foreground?** **Death, in any manner, is such an end. It is the end of all ends, for there is no turning back.**

 **If we cannot live by our own strength, as my OC has so clearly stated, how can we live at all? Who must be our support and strength when we should not face this war of Life alone? I think that is almost a question for the ages.** **The soldier narrating this is an OC of mine: Captain Tobias of the Narnian cavalry. He was born a Calormene but died a Narnian. Also, I do not know who uttered the quote I used in the summary, forgive me,**

 **WH**


End file.
